A New Song
by Tandy
Summary: Sansan romantic fic with a flimsy plot. Some Genrya thrown in as well."The song you promised me in your letter, "he rasped out, "I will claim it tonight," he finished menacingly, causing an awful flutter in Sansa's tummy.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Yada yada yada... it doesn't belong to me._

_A/N: WARNING: UNBETAD, read at your own risk. _

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><p>Chapter 1<p>

The spring air was crisp and cool, still with a bite of winter. Sansa wrapped her cloak tighter around her as she guided her palfrey through the streets of King's Landing. The Queen had summoned her to court, not a strange occurrence, but somewhat unusual considering that Queen Daenerys had just been to the orphanage a few days earlier. Sansa was always surprised at the gentleness of her Queen, so different from the former one.

She must not dwell on the past, she must go forward, Sansa thought, her mood souring at the thought of Cersei and of Joffry. King's Landing was a different place now, the stain of corruption and ill-suited rulers slowly ebbing away. The queen had done much for its beatification in the last several years. The young queen had lived on stories of the grandeur of the capital, only to reach a malodorous city filled with hovels and starving peasants.

The hovels still remained, although not as many, and not as decrepit as they had once been. The winter had been hard, yes, but the queen had gotten them through it, with the help of the glass gardens, her small council, and friends across the sea. The peasants were no longer starving and once spring and summer came about, there would be plenty again.

A familiar sight at the Red Keep, the guards let her through readily. She left her palfrey with a stable boy, and made her way quickly to the throne room, curious as to why she had been called. Most days when the Daenerys called upon her it was in private, to share wine and lemon cakes, never in front of her small council.

There were so many bad memories at King's Landing, at the Red Keep, but Sansa had pushed everything away since she had returned, adamant of making better ones. It was no easy feat, sometimes she felt as if every stone in the castle bore the stain of her grief.

"Your Grace, my lords," Sansa greeted the queen and her small council in the throne room.

The Queen was beautiful, dressed impeccably in silks with slim circlet crowning her silver hair. The young queen sat on her throne, regal and imposing, and sad. So very sad and weary. The queen had no patience with courtesies. "Sansa, you were here, were you not, when Joffry's sworn shield, the one they called the hound, was still in service?"

"Yes, your Grace, I was." Sansa, was puzzled over the question. The hound had been dead for years.

"Tell me about him."

"He was…" How could she answer that question? She had never known the Hound, not truly, and thinking about him made her heart ache terribly. "He was very angry, full or rage, but he could be kind and gentle." She remembered the times he had helped her, the gentle touch of his hand on her back, the sly way he had protected her against Joffry when he could. "I must admit, I am at a lost at your question."

"The Hound was found and captured by Lord Manderly, near White Harbor."

Sansa swallowed hard. "The hound is dead, Brianne of Tarth confirmed it."

"She was wrong," Grand Maester Marwin said. "A muscular warrior dwarfing most men, with half his face burned off. Not many men fit that description, not many people who would forget such a face, much less the rape and pillage of their village."

"It was not him," Sansa stated. "Lady Brianne said it had been outlaws, first that outlaw Roge and then Lem. Your grace, it was not him."

The queen stared at her with deep purple eyes, looking at her as if she knew all her secrets. "Brianne was wrong once, she could be wrong in this as well."

"Arya," she said, willing her voice to stay calm, when desperation clawed at her from head to foot. "She will tell you. Arya left him dying days before the assault at Saltpans. He could not have been the one. He could not have-" But could he have? He had once told her there was no greater pleasure than killing.

"Easy, Child," Marwin said, gently, "There will be a trial, his innocent or guilt will be proven then. The Queen and the Council, we're all relatively new comers here; we only wanted reliable information from someone who had known him."

"Of course, Ser. Forgive me."

"How did he come by his burns?" The queen asked.

Sansa told them all she knew about the hound, which was little enough. Starting from how Lord Tytos Lannister had made his Grandfather a lord for saving his life, to how his brother had put his face in the fire. She told them, also, of her sister's time with him. She tried to be objective, but she knew her truths were softened by her heart.

"Thank you, Lady Sansa, you have been most helpful."

Sansa bowed, and before her courage deserted her she blurted out, "Your Grace, may I see him?"

If her queen was surprised, she did not show it. "Of course. Ser, Lucan, please escort the Lady Sansa to the dungeons."

Her heart was thumping heavily in her chest, and she could feel tears threatening to fall as she descended into the dark pits of the castle. Bad memories she thought, King's Landing was filled with them, but the Hound wasn't part of them. She had to see him again, see for herself if what the Queen said was true. If he was truly alive.

The cells were bleak and cold. Sansa shivered, knowing her father had been held here too, before his beheading. She almost turned and ran before collecting herself and forging on. He was at the end of a long line of empty cells, the only one deemed dangerous enough to warrant the black cells. The room was small, lighted with one small brazier, a chamber pot in one corner, a small cot on the other and cold broth and hard bread laying discarded in the middle of the room.

The hound sat with his back to the wall, wearing dark wool and boiled leather, his longs legs stretched before him. His face was in shadows, his hair long and unkempt falling passed his shoulders, the unburnt part of his face thick with beard and mustache. In her memory he had been much fiercer, and had taken gigantic proportions. This man was big, but just a man, a somewhat broken and weary looking man.

"I thought you dead." The tears spilled from her eyes and she wiped them angrily away. She was a woman grown, tears had never aided her.

"The queen will see to that I have no doubt. Your disappointment will not last long."

"There's to be a trial." She sounded so small, like a child. "It was not you. At Saltpans, or the other villages. It was outlaws wearing your helm."

"Is that what you believe?" The hound rose to stand before her. He towered over her still, although he looked much leaner, almost gaunt, than she remembered.

Yes, that is what she had believed. That Arya had left him to die, that he had been buried by a kindly Septon. That he would never come seeking songs from her again. He had never been cruel. Not truly. The hound had been the only one to tell her the truth. "It was not you." She proclaimed again.

"Silly little bird."

His eyes, the color of steel, stared back at her with the same intensity of her memories. Half his face was a burned ruin, the other harsh and strong. Sansa did not look away. She had seen his face in her dreams and nightmares and recollections too many times to shrink away from it now. They stood staring into each others eyes, until the hound scoffed and took his place back on the cell floor.

"You had your look at the dog, now off with you."

Tears started falling again as she left the cells. It was not suppose to happen this way. _Silly little bird,_ he had said, he was right. He had always been right.

….

Night had fallen on the city by the time she reached the castle proper. The queen gave her escort to the Orphanage Sansa called home. After the wars, all the bloodshed, the queen had decreed that vast number of children left orphaned would become wardens of the crown. After little finger had been disposed off by the queen, Sansa had not known what her fate would be.

To her surprise the queen did not mean her any ill. Instead, Sansa was given leave to do as she pleased, to go to Riverrun with her uncle or back to Winterfell with her brother Rickon. She chose to stay in King's Landing. She was treated as a guest at court. As a highborn lady, sister of the lord of Witnerfell, she was invited to all the feasts, balls, and jousts that a younger Sansa had dreamed of. What she once had found thrilling and exciting she now found hollowed and frivolous.

The orphanage the Queen had built had been her refuge. The children, all hollowed eyed and hungry had called to her, and soon she was spending all her time with them. She read to them, taught the girls needlework, sang them songs and taught them whatever else she could. At the Queen's behest she had taken over the running of the enterprise. She supposed it was no different that running a household, like her mother had done at Winterfell.

When she arrived, the children were supping on a vegetable broth from their own glass gardens, and warm flaky bread fresh from the oven. She smiled at the lot of them, about sixty in total, many less than in the immediate years after the war. These were a new breed of orphans, different from the aftermath of the war. These were children left parent less due to poverty, disease, or simply unwanted. "Good evening, children."

They replied back with fervor. A young girl of two, too young to know any better, ran to her. Sansa caught her and lifted her up, kissing her noisily until the toddler squealed with laughter. The dire thoughts and bad memories slipped away as the child cuddled close to her. She kissed the light brown hair, loving the weight of her small body.

Emelin's mother had left her at the orphanage soon after she had been born, claiming she needed no more daughters when she already had a brood of five. Sansa had found a wet nurse for the child, and although she left most of her care on the maids the Queen provided (most of them former residents of the orphanage themselves), little by little the child had wormed herself into Sansa's heart.

The hound had wormed his way inside her heart as well. Very slowly, until one day she realized that he had been truer than any knight she had ever met. It had been too late, or so she had thought. To late to thank him for his help, even if it had been delivered brusquely and laden with hate.

...

The time passed incredibly slowly in the dungeons. He was fed the standard dungeon fare, moldy bread, wormy cheese, and a thin broth. Other than eating there was no other activity he could engage in to pass the time. It was nothing short of torture, especially since Sandor knew that the odds of him being found innocent were slim. It would be kinder to kill him now.

Was there such a thing as a kind ruler?

Not that he deserved kindness, or wanted it. He'd been going north to take the black when the Queen's men had arrested him. Sandor had not offered resistance, tired of hiding, of lying... of living. Life at the Quiet Isle had been, for lack of a better word, quiet. It had suited him fine the first year of his arrival, had soothed the broken man that he had been.

His life as a gravedigger was a short one. The elder brother soon realized his troubled spirit would not be calmed with silence and penitence. He was made a soldier of the faith, sent to guard the traveling brothers as they went from village to village. He disguised himself as a novice, hid his face when he could as he traveled through the vale and even as far as the neck.

He had left his robes behind when the Elder brother died. Lost and without purpose once again. The decision to take the black had been an easy one. There were still Wights and Others in the north and warriors needed to eradicate them. He had been taken near White Harbor when an old knight recognized his face. It had been stupid to leave his disguise behind. He had wanted to reach the wall as his true self, not some craven broken man too afraid to face his foes.

There would be no wall for him now; he was sure, only hypocritical nobles judging his soul. It would end with his head on a spike, of that he had no doubt. The hound was much reviled throughout the land; the men behind the snarling helm had all been monsters.

He should have fought; he should have made them kill him. If he had known he would have been left to rot awaiting the Queen's justice he would had made them kill him. He closed his eyes, wondering how much longer it would be until they chopped his head off. The boredom itself was driving him slowly mad.

He knew her, just by her scent. Sansa, his little bird, had descended to hell once more to grace him with her presence, smelling of soap and rosewater. She wore a simple gray dress, similar to the one she had worn before, devoid of adornment or jewels. Her long auburn hair was neatly braided down her back.

"Good day, my lord. The queen gave me leave to bring you food."

The turnkey that accompanied her opened the cell to thrust the basket unceremoniously on the floor. It smelled like heaven, making his mouth water immediately. The turnkey left, leaving him alone with Sansa in silence. He didn't reach for the food.

"Is not poisoned." she tried to smile, to sound cheerful, but failed in both attempts. "You will be set free. You will." she said after a long silence.

She was earnest in her belief. Had she learned nothing? Was she the same scared little child he had left behind? "What is it to you, if I live or die?"

Sansa neared the bars to the cell. "You were kind to me...in your way."

"You have not changed, little bird, not a whit."

He gave away to the temptation the basket of food offered. Blackberries, a slice of meat pie, skinny little sausages and flaky bread smeared with butter. He ate it all while Sansa stood watch over his cell, her eyes full of questions and her pretty mouth opening once or twice to ask them but closing when she thought better of it.

Time had only made her more beautiful. She was tall for a woman and slender, but with full breasts and rounded hips. Even in the dress she wore, more adequate for a servant than a daughter of Winterfell, her beauty was beyond compare. Beautiful, spoiled, sheltered Sansa, how he had wanted her, how he had tortured himself and tried to drown the lust he felt for her in wine, knowing he could never have her.

"I must leave. I'll come back tomorrow."

"Don't bother." He told her

But she did comeback. The day after that, and the one after, and the day after that one. She came bearing baskets filled to the brim with food. He ate it all like a man starving, which in truth he almost was, and wondered why he even did so. Such a waste, to feed a dead man.

Her smile was almost genuine when she saw him, huddled on the floor like a dog, even more so when he devoured the food she brought. Neither of them talked much and except for the first day, she had remained dried eyed throughout her visits. Sandor could tell the girl was filled with questions. She asked nothing. He had questions himself, but what purpose would it serve to ask them?

"The trial is tomorrow." she told him on the fourth day of his captivity. "The Queen will seat in judgment. It will be a fair trial."

"Like your dear husband had before me?"

Sansa pursed her lips. "It was different then."

Sandor scoffed.

She only smiled. "It was not you. Tomorrow you will be freed," she promised with her eyes.

...

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	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for the wonderful reviews.

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><p>Chapter 2<p>

The queen sat in the iron throne, as beautiful as the songs claimed. Her hair fell over her shoulders like spun silver. Her dress was silk the color her eyes, a deep purple lined with silver. Beautiful, he thought, and dangerous. She would not be sitting on the iron throne if she was not.

Fettered hand and foot he was made to kneel before the dragon queen. "The Riverlands have been plagued by outlaws for many years. Led, some people claim, by a man wearing a helm in the shape of snarling dog. You, Sandor Clegane, have been accused of being the man that wears the helm. The crimes you have been accused of are; murder, rape and pillaging. Acts of such depravity that my people are calling for your head. Are you guilty of these crimes?" The queen sounded almost like a child playing regent, so soft and melodic her voice was.

"No." What did it matter? He'd be missing a head by the end of the day regardless of what he said.

"What were you doing in the north?"

"I was going to take the black."

"Why would you want to join the Night's Watch?"

"Is the only place that there is still fighting to be done."

The queen smiled briefly at his response. "My men tell me you did not resist capture."

"My life was forfeited, regardless if it's at the wall or King's Landing. It makes no matter where it ends."

"Have you any witnesses to plead your case?

"No."

"Very well." She gestured with her hands, making the Knights who held him lead him to a table in the center of the throne room, far away from the people calling out for his head.

Ser this and Ser that came next, as witnesses of his guilt, along with several commoners who had family in such and such village who saw the Hound's vicious attack. All of them mentioned his helm, and some even looked him in the eye and swore that it was his face behind the helm, swore it was his ugly burnt face. No one could forget his face. They had seen his face from Saltpans to Raventree.

The Queen sat quietly, listening intently to what the witnesses had to say, once or twice asking a pointed question. "I have heard enough," she said, dismissing the last witness.

The queen sighed audibly. "Have you anything to say to your accusers?"

"They are liars."

The Queen gave him an impassive stare before saying, "There are other people I have called upon today to speak on this matter. I am curious to know what they have to say. Arya of House Stark."

The woman that approached the throne was lithe and graceful, with luxurious dark brown hair hanging all the way to her back. She was wearing breeches made of leather, and a simple tunic, a sword hung from her waist. The she-wolf all grown up and still coming after his blood. What a farce this was. The Queen shouldn't have concerned herself with appearances, the crowd would have been happy to have his head without a trial. Arya kneeled before the Queen.

Once, Arya had passed as a boy, no longer. She was too small, too feminine even in the masculine clothes she wore. She would never pass for a man, no matter how much she bound her breast or how short her hair was cut. Her eyes were as fierce as ever, the total opposite of her sisters trusting eyes. When she looked at him, she proclaimed him guilty.

"I was taken by the Brotherhood Without Banners to be ransomed to my mother at Riverrun. The hound took me from them, his intent to return me to my family. He saved my live at the Red Wedding. He took a wound fighting the bloody mummers at an inn. I left him to die in the woods, far from Saltpans. He was weak with fever and blood loss. He could barely lift his own body, much less sack Saltpans."

"I was going to ransom you, say the truth. I stole you from the outlaws in retribution for having my gold stolen by them. You were going to fetch quite a price."

"You shut your stupid mouth," she snarled at him dangerously.

"I'm no liar."

Arya gave him one disgusted look before turning to her Queen. "Forgive me, Your Grace, I had not known that he meant to ransom me."

The Queen studied her for a long moment before dismissing her. Next, she called a hulking giant of a woman, named Brianne of Tarth. She had an open and honest face, even if her skin was marred with an ugly scar on her cheek. He had heard about his woman. Brianne the Beauty, the people called her. This one didn't look at him much, except for a cursory glance his way. "Tell us of your encounter with the Hound on your search for Sansa Stark."

"At Saltpans I and my companions were attacked by the remnants of the bloody mummers. An outlaw named Roge wore the hound's helm. I killed him, but the helm was latter taken by another outlaw, this time by one of the Brotherhood Without Banners."

"How did this Roge get his hands on the Hound's helm?"

"A brother from the Quiet Isle came upon the Hound as he lay dying in the woods. The brother told me the hound had died. Unfortunately, the brother said, he had buried the hound with his helm marking the grave. Outlaws had desecrated the gravesite, stealing the helm and wearing it to terrorize the small people. "

_What the hell was happening? _Arya's account had been bizarre enough, then the beauty's and now the high septon? He had made his peace with dying, it seemed he would have to amend his plans once again.

To Sandor's utter astonishment the High Septon was summoned next. He had a friendly face, deep seteyes in an angular face. He was young, barely in his forties, and starting to grey at the temples of his short cropped hair. The Septon actually offered an encouraging smile as he passed him on the way to kneel before the throne.

"Hight Septon Adric, tell me why you wished to speak today."

"My brothers at the Quiet Isle have sent a Raven as soon as word of Ser Sandor's imprisonment reached them. The Elder Brother, Meribald apologizes for being unable to present himself in person, however, he beseeches his majesty to spare Sandor Clegane's life, as he is innocent of the crimes he has been accused of. Ser Sandor has been in service of the Quiet Isle these many years, until last. Brother Meribald further goes to praise Ser Sandor on his bravery and skills in defending his brothers from the Brotherhood without Banners, Wights, and the Others. Without Ser Sandor, the elder brother reiterates, they would have lost many men."

The room was deathly quiet, no one daring to question the High Septon, but neither believing his words. It was the word of two highborn ladies and a holy man against hearsay. It was not hard to see which direction the trial had taken. Still, Sandor smelled a trap. It seemed someone still had some use for him.

The Queen opened her mouth to speak but Sandor already knew what the outcome would be. It seemed he was about to have a new master.

...***

She was tiny, not as skinny as Arya, but close enough, with delicate fine features. Not the image he had expected from a fierce warrior queen. She showed no fear of him, not even when her maids left them alone in her solar, with only a guard outside the door to protect her. He could break her neck with hardly any effort before any of her guards could come to her aid. Foolish child.

"Where will you go now that I have cleared your name?" The queen sat in a large cushioned chair, one foot tucked beneath her, the other dangling bare out of her silks.

Sandor sat opposite to her, playing with a goblet filled with Dornish red. "I do not like games, _Your Grace_," he snarled. "If you will have something of me, ask it plainly."

"What bad tempered dog," the Queen said smiling. "What makes you think I want something from you?"

"That mummer's face of a trial surely does not come free of charge. Well played, I will give you that. You are slyer than most masters I have served."

She laughed merrily. "I did not orchestrate that little show. Let me assure you,Ser, you would not have your head upon your shoulders if I believed you guilty."

"I am no Ser." He abandoned his cup of red on a table with intricate carvings. "Who then?"

"Sansa Stark."

The name hit him like a blow from a morningstar. Was that why she had been so sure he would be set free? But why?

"Your trial was set for earlier, but Sansa convinced the small council to wait until all possible witness could be heard. She sent ravens to the Quiet Isle, persuaded the Septon to speak for you and the most daunting task of all; persuaded Arya to come your aid. You have quite a rabid defender." The queen sipped daintily from her own goblet. "You owe me nothing; except the answer to my question. Where will you go now?"

His mouth felt dry, so he swallowed with effort, his brain still engaged in Sansa Stark.

"The wall."

"Truly? I assumed you would want to claim your birthright. It is why I called you."

"My birthright?"

"With your brother dead, you are the head of House Clegane."

He rasped out a laugh. "Your Grace jests. My house was in the service of the Lannisters since its birth. The lands and the Keep have no doubt given to some hedge knight."

"If I had stripped every knight, lord, or peasant who once had dealings with the Lannisters I would rule an empty kingdom. Your lands have not been given away. A castellan has been placed.. It is yours, if you want it."

"At what price?"

"Loyalty."

"I do not want it."

"You many not want it now, but perhaps in the future you will regret your decision. Think of benefits for your children and wife. Surely you would want them nobly bred, with a Maester and septa."

"I have no children, nor a wife."

"Not yet."

"I said I do not want it!"

"What about Sansa?"

"What about her?" He rasped.

"Sansa worked so hard to gain you your freedom. I am sure it is not her wish to see you in all in black." She smiled cryptically at him. "The Westernlands, are still bothered by the Brotherhood Without Banners. My dragons cannot burn whole forests to smoke the outlaws out. Mayhaps, with the Hound at the Head of House Clegane the outlaws would think twice about the havoc they cause."

"You give me back the Keep in exchange of getting rid of your outlaws. Is that the trade?"

"Yes. I suppose so."

"Keep it."

The Queen laughed. "You are rude, Ser, but I dot find myself offended. One gets tired of being coddled and agreed with it all the time."

"Forgive me if I don't offer my sympathies."

"Take the Keep and do what you will."

"I do not want it, I said."

"Its yours." The Queen squared her jaw, daring him to contradict him.

"What possible gain could you have for doing this?

She smiled, sadly this time. "There is part of me that refuses to die. It is the girl inside me who still clings to taste joy and unending love."

Women he thought, all of them with songs in the head. Even this one, a conqueror, still succumbed to their romantic natures.

"You think me foolish."

"Aye."

...

Arya watched her older sister give Emelin a bath. Such a gentle soul her sister, she thought as she watched her lady hands sponge the young child. Seemingly so innocent, after all she had been through. Sansa was older by three years, but oftentimes Arya felt the eldest of the two.

"What will you do now?"

"Regarding?" Sansa said, feigning innocence as she finished up with Emelin.

Arya raised a cool eyebrow, gazing at her sister with a look of utter disappointment at her lack of lying skills. Arya had been trying to teach her how to lie properly for years, with no success thus far.

"There is nothing for me to do. He wants to take the black. Let him."

"Word at the castle is that he means to leave immediately."

"Oh?"

Her sister carried Emelin to a chair to rock her to sleep. The infant refused to sleep in the dormitory with all the other girls. She would howl and holler, waking up the whole orphanage until Sansa came to fetch her. Sansa had fallen in love with the child as soon as she had set eyes on her face. Her sweet sister tried not coddling the girl in respect of all the other children, but anyone could plainly see she doted on the girl.

"You are beautiful Sansa, sister to the Lord of Winterfell, you can have any man you desire. Why the Hound? Why _him?_"

"It matters not. He chose the Quiet Isle and then the black, not me."

"You are a fool to waste your tears on such a man."

The sisters, different as they were, had become quite close after their reunion. Sansa had told her everything that had happened to her at King's Landing and the Vale. She had told her sister about the Hound's offer to take her with him. About his small kindness, his help, which she had been too young and stupid to understand at first. When Brienne had told her of the Hound's demise, Sansa had wept bitterly. She had wept again when Arya had told her of her journey with the hound, of how she had left him to die.

"If any man deserves a woman's tears it's him."

Arya scoffed. She took Emelin from her arms and started lifting her up in the air, making the child squeal. "Arya! I will never be able to put her to sleep if you continue that nonsense. Give her back."

The child was laughing so hard her little body was convulsing furiously. Arya laughed along with the child, loving the weight of her little body and the funny way her hair stood on end when she lifted her high in the air.

"Enough! Give her back."

"Spoilsport." Arya handed the laughing bundle back.

Sansa smoothed down her hair, and her little clothes, cooing as she did, trying to calm the rambunctious child to no avail, the girl was squirming in her lap, crying, "Up, Up, Up!"

"Now see what you have done? It will take me ages to get her to sleep."

Arya laughed throatily before kissing her older sister on the forehead. She left a disgruntled Sansa singing lullabies to Emelin. Her sister's ill mood had more to do with finding out the hound meant to take the black than her meddling with the child's bedtime. The hound, she thought, the name that had been missing from her nightly mantra for so long. She had left him to die, believing him unworthy of the gift of mercy.

She could taste the bitterness in her mouth at the injustice. Why should her brothers, save little Rickon, perish and that beast of man survive. Worst yet, that her sister nursed a tender feeling for him. Sansa, still seeing the world through songs and stories, believing in righteousness and justice, and love. It was an enviable flaw; she seemed the happier for it.

The city was quiet as she made her way to her Inn. She would not stay long at the capital, having to travel soon to do the Queen's business. Being in King's Landing only brought painful memories to the surface. _What place did not?_ No matter where she went the ghosts fallowed her, those of her father, her mother, her brothers, of Mycah, of the people she had killed.

"My Lady," a familiar voice said behind her, making her morose mood darken even further.

Her response was to draw her slim Bravossi sword, not needle, she had outgrown needle many years before, and swing at him. She cut him lightly on his throat, drawing a small trickle of blood. He stumbled back, almost falling, making Arya smile wickedly. Strength and courage he did not lack, but he had never been agile.

"Stop. It's Gendry," he shouted in the darkness when her sword slashed close to his nose.

"I am aware of that."

"Arry, Stop."

He would never take up arms against her, she knew, disgusted she sheathed her sword. "Leave me be."

"A few words, My Lady, if you will."

"No."

Ser Gendry, he was called now, knighted by Beric Dondarrion and serving the Queen. What strange turns life took. She had liked him better when he was a blacksmith's apprentice, not this ambitious knight hungry for a lordship. He was done up in fancy clothes, fancy plates, and fancy airs. He made a handsome sight if truth be told, with his long thick hair and tall muscled frame. The ladies at court would coo and flirt but none would have him; poor as he was, and landless. Another smile lit up her face, this time from cold satisfaction.

"Arry-"

"What do you want?" She said as she went on her way to her inn.

"Just to talk, my lady. I haven't seen you since you came back from the Moat Caitlin. I trust everything went well."

"Yes, Gendry."

"Ser, its Ser Gendry." He reminded her proudly.

Her sword hand itched at the comment. "I do not need an escort, _Ser Gendry_. "

"A Lady should not walk the streets alone."

"I am no Lady, as you well know."

"You are Arya of House Stark, you are a Lady, and it is my honor to escort you to your sleeping quarters."

She rolled her eyes in the darkness, but said no more to Gendry. He did not leave her side until she was safely inside her room. _Idiot,_ she thought, but there was warmth spreading in her chest that belied her thoughts.

What a shock it had been, to see a man grown with Gendry's features when she arrived with the dragon queen. Gendry, taller, stronger… and knighted. He had searched for her then as he still did, vying for her attention like a lost puppy. Arya could not stand him. He had been part of her pack, she had thought, only to discover he meant naught at all to him. It still hurt. She had trusted him, had thought he was an ally. All he had wanted in the end was to rise in the world. She would have preferred him as a blacksmith.

But there was no denying that she thought of him more often that she should. Wondered if a lady would take him as her husband despite his bastard birth and lack of fortune.

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><p><em>AN: Please let me know what you think.<em>


	3. Chapter 3

_I'm so thrilled about the reviews. Thank you so much for reading. I hope you guys keep liking this story. _

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><p>Chapter 3<p>

Sansa woke abruptly when a large hand covered her mouth and another held her down. Frantically she tried to shake him off; he was too strong, she could barely move.

"You will wake your babe if you keep squirming," a voice rasped in the heavy darkness.

Her fear instantly subsided, although her heart did not slow from its heavy pace. Sensing her body becoming still, the Hound let her hands go free.

"What are you doing here?" She whispered furiously. "Are you mad?"

"No more than you," he whispered back. "No guards? Not even a bloody man in the house?"

"This is an orphanage, the home of the queen's wards. No one would dare harm the children."

"Little bird, you are true fool."

"The city watch patrols this way."

"A lot of good they have done you tonight."

Sansa crawled closer to the voice; she couldn't even see him properly in the darkness, the small fireplace hardly giving any light. He had been next to the bed she was sure, but somehow he had slipped from her sight and was now shrouded in the dark shadows of the room. She slipped from the bed quietly, wanting to feed more wood to the dwindling fire. She was held back by a gentle hand on her forearm.

"No."

"I can hardly see you."

A bitter laugh escaped him. "Count yourself fortunate."

He drew her further into the shadows, away from the warmth of the fire. The hand on her forearm slowly slid down, until it was no longer touching her, leaving a trail of fire in its wake despite the heavy sleeping gown she wore.

"I thought you knew no better about proper behavior, I am starting to believe you knew very well the proper way to go about things and strive to do the very opposite, my lord."

He couldn't see his face, but she could imagine the burnt lips twitching, his form of a smile. He smelled like soap, as if he had just bathed, and surprisingly there was no wine of his breath. She wanted to see him, she realized, wanted to see his stormy grey eyes, that hooked nose, the roughhewn features, the scarring, everything.

She felt her mood shift unexpectedly as it had done since the trial, from being thankful that he was alive and free to sudden anger at his disregard. Had she meant nothing else to him but a pretty girl to lust after? Had he all but forgotten her once he had left the city?

"You should have let them take my head."

"What purpose would that served? Killing an innocent man, there has been enough of that in the past. We need no more of it."

"What purpose do I serve now? Tell me?" The whisper came out full of rage.

"You are to take the black. There is purpose in that."

"Aye. I leave on the morrow."

Her heart gave a painful lurch. "I wish you good luck, Ser."

"You and your fucking courtesies, you can drive a man to want to drown in ale. Speak plainly, little bird, for once. Tell the truth, why did you do it?"

He would mock her if he knew, laugh at her, and tell her she knew nothing of life. But the anger was still simmering inside her, and the words came out recklessly, angrily, through the harsh whispers.

"You never came for me! Never. You took a song and kiss from me and you never came back. I thought you had come back for me, that you were making your way to winterfell for me. You were going to the wall!" She fisted her hands tightly to pound on the Hound's massive chest. It was like hitting a stone wall. "Go to take the black and rot!"

She went back to the fire, this time he did not stop her. She felt ashamed now. Sansa had always thought of the Hound, and at the end, when her very survival seemed unlikely she had dreamed of the Hound coming for her. She had thought nothing and nobody would dare hurt her if the Hound was with her. What a foolish little bird she was.

"I stole no kiss from you."

"You did," she said.

"I remember that night as clearly as if it had transpired only yesterday. I stole no kiss."

"You did too. I-" _What did it matter?_ "Leave."

The hound came to stand before the meager fire, the flames licking up his face, transforming it into a nightmare. "You could not stand to look at me. Was I to rush to your side, knowing all that awaited me was scorn and disgust? What if I had played the fool, where was I to find you? You disappeared."

"But afterward-"

"You became Harry the Heir's wife."

"Harry has been dead for eight years," she said softly, remembering the young handsome boy that had been her husband for a less than half a year, slain in a hunting accident orchestrated by littlefinger. "You could have stolen me. We could have run away where no one could find us."

"Dreams, Sansa, you know it to be so."

"Yes," she said. Foolish dreams from a foolish girl.

"Did you cry, when you heard of my death?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Mayhaps I was too young to understand then, but there was something between us. Don't deny it."

"There was fear on your part and lust on mine."

"Yes that and more."

He turned his face to gaze at Emelin sleeping on the feather bed. "The child can be no more than five, is she little finger's get?"

"No. She was abandoned by her mother for being born a girl."

"You have no children?"

"No," she said softly, barely audible, remembering the life she had carried inside her for so short a time. "Leave," she said again, I have no wish to speak to you anymore. Leave for the wall. I care not."

"The truth, Sansa, this night you speak the truth."

His face was fierce, his eyes two orbs of need, his mouth drawn tight across his face. He had shaved and cut his hair, she could see now in the light. His hair fell only a little passed his shoulders and was still moist from his bath. She longed to touch him as she had that night so long ago.

"What do you wish for me to say?"

He lifted a heavy arm, brought the hand behind her neck to bring her closer to him. His hand rubbed softly at her nape. His touch was as gentle as she remembered. "Say it."

"Black does not become you, my lord,"

He laughed loud and strong waking Emelin with a start. "Lady," the child called out, fear evident in her groggy voice, ready to start wailing.

"I'm here darling," she soothed the girl while the hound retreated back into the shadows. She sang the child a song, a sweet lullaby to calm her. She could feel his eyes on her, it made her voice shake and her hands tremble. It took but a moment for the child to drift back to sleep.

Sansa stayed with her on the bed, holding the child, unwilling to face the hound again. He came to her, towering over them, but his hands were gentle when they brushed a light brown curl away from the tiny face. "Motherhood becomes you, Sansa," he whispered.

"I am not her mother."

"You are. No one looking at you with the babe in your arms would claim otherwise."

Sansa nodded numbly at his words. Her own little babe, it was true, she realized. Emelin was the closest she had ever come to true love. There was no one dearest to her heart. Yes, the girl was hers; it made no matter that it had not been her that had brought her forth into the world. The hound had a way of sniffing out the lies, even the ones she told to herself.

He left without another word, a dark giant hidden in the shadows.

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><p>She was to leave soon, but as always, Arya was drawn here, to this supposed sacred ground. She could still hear the crowds roaring at her father's spilled blood, gleeful. She could smell the arid air filled with filth, rank body order, and rotten food. Sacred ground, she thought, as she stood on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, reviling every stone upon which it was built. Sacred. She wanted to weep and laugh the same time.<p>

Laughter won over when she saw a hulking figure exiting the Sept that could only be Sandor Clegane. She ran up a couple of stairs to reach him, still laughing at the absurdity. He looked wearily at her, with bloodshot tired eyes that spoke a sleepless night, no doubt spent whoring and drinking. She had forgotten how physically imposing he was until that moment, dwarfed by his height and brawn. Her head barely reached his shoulders, and she had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. Instead of doing that, she climbed three stairs to be above him.

"Do not tell me you have become devout."

"What do you want, wolf-girl?"

Arya looked at the entrance, filled with commons and highborn alike praying on their knees for gold or health or love. How could they still believe, after the wars, the sackings, the deaths, the hunger and suffering? Arya Stark stopped believing in the gods the moment the crowed cheered at her father's decapitated head.

"A thank you would be appreciated. Your head would be on a spike if I had sung a different song."

"I owe you nothing. It was your sister's doing that you did no proclaimed me guilty of every wrong done onto you and yours, starting from your butcher's boy. The high Septon's word would have been enough. It is your sister I need thanking, not you."

He could not picture this beast with her lady sister. Although Sansa's beauty and courtly manner hid a stronger core, she was kindhearted and still trusted too easily. "Be gentle with her, if you have it in you to be so."

The hound nodded imperceptibly. "Is that all?"

Truth, she did not know why she had gone to him. Sansa was a woman grown and would not apprecite her meddling. She answered by giving the hound her back, facing the place where her father had been executed. She saw him descend the steps through the corner of her eye, limping ever so slightly from the wound that had provided her chance to escape him. Arya stayed at the Sept a while longer, gazing at the bloodied stone floor.

Surely if the god's existed, they would have struck down Joffry for wanting to spill blood upon their house. Instead they let her father, a just an honorable man, be murdered upon their steps, his death cheered by the bloodthirsty commons.

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><p>He had learned quickly enough after his release from the black cells that his little bird had remained unmarried after being widowed by Harry the Heir. Little finger had tried to wed her next, but was thwarted by the dragon queen, who not only took back the vale into the crown, but took little finger's head as well. Rickon Stark had emerged sometime later, reclaiming Witnterfell for the Starks.<p>

Sansa had not gone back, choosing to stay at court to pursue her ladylike interests. It was no until the second year of the new peace that Sansa started frequenting the orphanage, or so a steward at the Red Keep told him drunkenly at the Queen's Inn. The little bird was no longer seen at court, or at balls nor feats, although she was a favorite of the queen. Rarely did she leave her orphanage at the edge of the king's wood.

No matches had been set for her, some claiming she was cursed due the unfortunate demise of the men she had been betrothed or married to, starting from Joffry and ending with little finger. There had been some noise several years back, with a young dornish knight, but nothing had come of it. Some claimed she was barren as she had failed to produce children with either of her two husbands.

He stared at her now, at his little bird, more beautiful that he could have ever imagined, surrounded by a dozen children outside her glass gardens. She was teaching them their letters with the little one in her lap. She was clothed in common garb, a rough spun wool dress that only emphasized her uncommon beauty. He entered through the woods, as he had the last time, and watched her from afar, hidden in the trees.

If matters had gone better for her family she would be married now to some high lord, to the Tyrells maybe, or a Dornish princeling. Still, he could not believe that it was by choice that she managed the orphanage. The clothes she wore were one step above a servants', nothing at all like the fancy gowns she used to favor. How different she was, and yet there was a sense of familiarity he recognized in her. Her courtly manners, her clear trusting blue eyes, but she feared him no longer.

He waited until nightfall to follow her into her room. It was so easy, he thought with disgust, nobody but young maids and a few young boys that helped with the glass gardens. When he entered, she was pacing with her babe in arms, humming a softly. The little girl, raised her head at his entrance, and stared at him curiously with big round eyes. Sansa wore almost the same exact look.

"You are shameless, my lord," she declared, but with a hint of a smile after her befuddlement vanished.

"I would suggest guards to prevent uninvited guests, Sansa. I told you."

"Oh, is that why you are here, to inspect my defenses?"

His lips twitched involuntarily at her sauciness. Something else that was new. "I leave tomorrow at first light."

Her little smile instantly fell from her face. "I thought-"

"Give me something to come back for."

"Once you take the black, we can't… that is, you do not come back from the wall."

"I do not intend to take the black. It is to the Westerlands I journey to. Now a token, Sansa, to entice a man back to King's landing."

He didn't think she would, not really, and was set to ride to the wall despite what he had told her. When her lips touched his all his plans dissolved, and all that mattered was her. She smelled sweet, like rosewater. Her lips were soft on his, tentative. On the burnt side of his face he felt another pair of lips, wetter, clumsier and smaller. "Kiss, kiss," the babe said, making smacking noises as she puckered her lips.

He stared at the curly haired child in bewilderment until Sansa's giggles brought him out of it. The little brat started following the mother's example and started howling with laughter as well. Sandor wiped the drool from his face as the two giggled to their hearts content.

"Em, I have told you not to be so loose with your affections, you hussy," she scolded the girl, good humor still lacing her voice. She switched the girl to her other hip, obviously flustered.

"That was not enough."

Sansa pursed her lips. "I dare not, not with my child in the room."

"I was asking for a token, my lady, not the whole purse, but it is a pleasant surprise to find you so willing."

Her lips thinned out again, in what he was coming to know as a sign of frustration or anger. He remained where he stood, a few paces from her, willing her to come to him again. To show him that she no longer feared his face, that she was not disgusted by him. She did not disappoint and he sank into her kiss with a loud groan he could not contain.

She brought her body close, or as close as she could with the child latched on her hip. Her kiss was sweet and strangely inexperience for twice-widowed woman, but it was sweeter than anything Sandor had experience before. When her tongue snaked out shyly to lick his lips, he brought his own hands around her and the babbling child to bring her closer, opening his mouth for her to explore. It was even sweeter from then on. "Enough," he said, knowing he was at the very edge.

"No."

She placed a hand on his shoulder when he would have pulled away to bring him down to her once again. Torture, he thought, at the sweet pleasure of her kisses. Surely, she could feel his cock straining against her belly. "Enough," he said again, when she started to nuzzle his neck. 'More of that, little bird, and you will have me rutting between your sweet legs tonight."

"I only wanted to give you a sufficient token, my lord," she said, vying for flirty but sounding breathless instead. Sandor could feel her heart thundering insider her.

He took her jaw in his big hand, "It is more than sufficient."

She gave him a tremulous smile. "You will come back, won't you?"

"I will."

The girl babbled some words happily, and bounced on Sansa's arms. Her skinny arms rose to clamp about his neck, startling Sandor to no end. She was trying to wiggle out of Sansa's grasp. "UP! UP!"

"Oh, you little hellion. This is all Arya's fault," an obviously mortified Sansa exclaimed. "Would you terribly mind lifting her up? Only for a moment if you please."

Sandor looked dubiously at Sansa, while trying to ignore the drooling, babbling clinging little animal around his neck. Sansa had brought his arm around to support the little chit, and for the first time in his life, Sandor was holding a baby.

"Do no look so scared," Sansa said, "As the child squirmed like a slippery fish in his arms. "Place your hand under her arms, yes, like that. You can lift her up now. Yes like that."

"UP!UP!"

The girl squealed, her little feet kicking in the air gleefully. He gave a small laugh, at the situation, at his own embarrassment, at the image he must make. He brought her down gently; conscious of the child's fragility, to Sansa's waiting arms.

"More," the girl said, her arms outstretched toward him.

"No," Sansa, said firmly. "No more." She placed her on the floor, where the child continued to sulk. In his experience with the royal children, this was about the point were they would start screaming and crying, throwing themselves onto the floor until they got their way. Joffry and Tommen had been that way, but to his surprise the child did no go into a tantrum, instead played quietly with a rag doll Sansa provided her.

"Have a safe journey my lord."

"Bye, bye!" the girl on the floor said, waving her little doll.

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><p><em>... and the flimsly plot trudges slowly on...<br>_

_Comments? Criticisms? Please tell!_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Thanks for all the wonderful reviews. I do apologize for taking so long to post this chapter. To make up for it this is a lengthy chapter that i had planned to split into two parts. I hope you guys enjoy. _

_Warning: Lemon_

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><p>Chapter 4<p>

Sansa's heart swelled at the sight of her children, well fed, well-clothed, and well-mannered, standing before the queen in barely disguised awe. The young queen would visit the orphanage regularly, perhaps once in a moon's turn, and the children were equally mystified and scared. For her part, the queen looked down at them with open warmth. The Mother, the small people called her, even her children addressed her thus. The queen did not seem to mind.

Queen Daenarys always came during playtime, when the children were free to roam the courtyard. She liked to watch them at their play, laugh at their childish antics. Some of the weight on her shoulders seemed to lighten at the sight of such innocence.

The queen moved about the hastily assembled ranks, patting a head here and there, commenting on a new dress, or pretty hairstyle, sometimes calling the children by their names. Her children curtsied and bowed and murmured her title, either mother or your grace, as she passed, even little Emelin, holding onto Nanree's hand.

"Go on now," the queen said. "Start your play."

The children did not need to be told twice, the ranks disintegrated with unbelieving quickness. Soon there were pretend knights in a middle of a war, damsels in distress, and come in to my castle games. The queen took a seat in the pavilion assembled for the purpose of her viewing pleasure. Sansa and the queen sipped on arbor gold while the shrieks and shouts echoed all around them, especially those of the nursemaids trying to control their charges.

"Arya has reached Dorne. She complains of the weather, the food, and my subjects."

Sansa gave a small laugh. Arya was incorrigible. "I'm sure the Dornish find her just as charming."

Her sister and the Queen had encountered each other across the Narrow sea. They were friends, Sansa knew, like King Robert and her father had been. Arya was always at court, as a companion to the queen, but oftentimes she was sent throughout Westeros and across the narrow sea, carrying the dragon sigil and the Wolf of house Stark. Sansa was no ninny, Arya served the queen in more ways that a companion and representative. She doubted Arya was even in Dorne.

She took a bite of her lemon cake and smiled innocuously at the queen.

"There was a raven just today, from the Clegane Keep as well. Lord Clegane sends you his regards."

Sansa almost choked on the pastry. "Lord Clegane?"

"The hound," the queen explained, a smile gracing her features. "Have you not been told? I restored his birthright."

Sansa's mouth must have been hanging open, because the queen gave a small laugh at her surprise. "That was extremely generous of you, your grace."

The queen shrugged her shoulders. "I needed someone to man the keep and protect the land from the outlaws. He seemed the wisest choice. He had the gall to refuse me at first. He came around eventually with some prodding."

"The missive also bids me to tell you he will be on his way back to King's Landing shortly. Does the man take me for a raven?"

"Forgive him, Your Grace, he is-"

"Crude, unsophisticated, and with little patience. He reminds me of my sun and stars," the queen said whimsically, staring at the children with unfocused eyes.

The queen's first husband had been a fearsome dothraki warrior. A bloodthirsty barbarian. Sansa was not sure she liked the comparison. Although the queen was not wholly wrong, as loath as she was to admit it. "Does he send any other news?"

"You mistake me for a Raven as well," she waved away Sansa's apology with a dainty arm. "Go to Marwin. He will send a raven to the Keep with whatever love words you wish."

"Your Grace?" she knew she was blushing furiously

"It is as plain as day. You look at him like my sun and stars once gazed upon me."

"Did you love him so much?" It was hard to believe her beautiful poised queen had once loved a savage warrior. She had never imagined the queen still grieved over her first husband.

"More and more," she said. "When he died, a part of me died as well. I would give anything to have him with me."

"I am sorry, Your grace, for your pain."

The queen smiled at her. "Write your letter. I will deliver it to Marwin personally."

She asked one the maids to bring her parchment and quills, and under the queen's smiling gaze she wrote a letter to her would be lover, flushing at the memory of his lips and his hard body pressed against her. How sweet it had been, how gentle he was with her. It had always been so, as if he was afraid to break her. She hid a smile behind her hand, remembering the sight of his face when Emelin had kissed him.

Sansa looked at her little girl now, currently being spoiled by two older girls. The hound had been gentle with her as well, although reluctantly. She had been sleeping on her own for three days, hardly making a fuss at all in adjoining room next to her own. When the hound came back…

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><p>Arya, in servant's garb, shadowed the arrogant lord with her eyes and she poured and served his household. He drank fine wines and dined on meat everyday while his small people barely manage to come out of the winter alive. Summer harvests were still some time away, his people were still boiling grass for dinner, and eating bugs for breakfast. Soon, Arya told herself, soon. Lord Romin, head of a minor house would not bleed his people for much longer. It would be almost too easy.<p>

"Stupid girl, hurry with that wine!" The lord called to her.

"Yes, m'lord," Arya said meekly.

She had to suffer his pawning as she refilled his goblet. "In my chamber, tonight, girl."

"Yes, m'lord," he sent her away with a pat on the ass.

Arya hung her head as if ashamed, although to be sure the maids in his castle were most likely oftentimes used in this way. She lifted her head when she felt a burning gaze directed at her. She almost dropped the façade of the meek serving girl, wanting nothing but to skewer the owner of the blue orbs that looked at her so disdainfully.

She was dressed as a serving girl with her hair a deep black and her posture humble, like a little mouse. It was not enough to hide her from him. If only she had access to the house of black and white, she despaired once again. He would never have known her if she wore another's face.

"Ser Gendry! Welcome!" Lord Romin exclaimed from the high table. "How unfortunate your horse went lame, but I'm glad my house was able to help such a brave knight. I trust you will tell our sweet queen of my hospitality. "

She was made to serve him food and wine, all the while fearing he would give her away. He accused her with her eyes but did not speak a word the entire night. She shot him a warming gaze, threatening him to keep his stupid mouth shut. He understood of course, he always understood.

The fat lord was soon called for her, and with one last warning glace to Gendry she followed him to his quarters.

An hour later Arya made her way carefully through the castle, hiding in the shadows to reach the room Gendry had been given. Silently she padded into the dark room. Gendry had been waiting for her. She found herself pressed with her back against the stone wall, Gendry pressing to her front, a blade in his hand. She stared incredulously at him.

"Have you killed him?"

"No."

"You just fucked him then?"

Arya pushed him away but his bulk was much too heavy for her. He used brute force to hold her still. "You fucked him," he accused.

"What is it to you?" she lifted her chin in defiance.

"Nothing, _my lady_." He let her go abruptly. He sheathed his knife and went to his bed.

"What are you doing here?"

"Following you, _my lady_."

"You did not," she said, indignant. She would have noticed.

"I am not the clumsy oaf you think I am. I have been following you since the capital."

He was lying on the bed, fully clothed, his feet dangling off the bed due to his height. It was a ridiculous sight. "Why?"

"Why? Why? Why did I become a knight? Why do I stay at King's Landing? Why do I seek you out? You know, you silly fool."

Gendry had never talked to her in such a manner. Never. It made her heart ache. "I'm on the queen's business. You should not have come," she told him quietly, suddenly ashamed.

"You call whoring yourself 'the queen's business? You lie with such ease. Always have." He turned his back on her and Arya slipped quietly out of the room, furiously wiping away tears.

The next morning Lord Romin rose from his bed and promptly fell down the stairs breaking his neck as he went to break his fast.

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><p>There was much to do. The keep itself was well preserved, if bare, and repairs had been started a year earlier at the behest of the queen's castellan. The fields needed to be cleared and prepared for spring planting, their men at arms were a jape, their training fields and stables were so decrepit a strong gust would tare them down. The kennel, once the pride of his family, was empty and abandoned. A new maester was needed, as well as a Septon, and the neglected godswood needed seen to as well.<p>

It was a meager place, a great hall with some outbuildings and a tower. The lands not even half the size of winterfell. It made no matter, it was his home, he felt it in his bones, and called himself a fool for ever thinking about taking the black when his lands had been offered.

He walked to the tower, where his sister and he had taken lessons with old maester Cletus. Sandor had thought the strongest memories would be of his cursed brother, but no, the memories long buried inside him were those of his little sister, of their mother and father. He had been happy here once, before Gregor, before his sister had died.

He reread Sansa's letter again, only a few short lines admonishing him for not telling her about his lands, and most importantly words to say that she would sing a pretty song for him if he hurried back to King's Landing. Sometimes he felt as if he was being made a fool of in an elaborate jape. Her mouth had been sweet and hungry for his, her body soft and willing, for him. It was arousing just to think about it, abut her mouth and her body, and her clear blue eyes looking into his.

He looked at the keep through her eyes and found it sadly lacking. No matter how many repairs were made or how wise the maester the keep would always be nothing but the seat of a minor house, too lowly for the Starks. Too lowly for Sansa. Would she be happy here, away from the bustle of the capital, with only his miserable self for company?

He was afraid of the answer.

Next he went to his humble Septry, the seven walls the only facet distinguishing it from the rest of the run down buildings. The icons had been stolen long ago, and now it lay empty. A big empty tomb. He kneeled regardless and prayed to all seven faces of God. He was not devout; as the little wolf had accused, but being alive despite all odds made a man reconsider godly beings. Alive, landed, and with a pretty wench lusting after him. Such bounty could only be divine doing, and for that he kneeled and prayed, a habit born of his many years with the pious brothers.

He asked for strength from the warrior and a reprieve from the stranger. The outlaws were a bold sort, going so far as to have looted the keep and squatted in it. The castellan only hid when they drew near. The villagers had it even worst, unable to hide behind think stone walls. The keep was defenseless, as much as Sandor thirsted for their blood, he knew the small army of men the keep had would be butchered like swine against the outlaws.

It was strange that for the first time in his life he truly cared whether he lived or died. For the first time he feared death. Sansa was foremost in his thoughts, always, her kisses, her touch, and the stars in her eyes when she looked at him, scars and all. It was not all lust; it had not been for a long time. Maybe it had never been purely lust.

It was more vexing to have to think for two now. Three, if he counted the babe. It had been only him for so long, he was not sure he was capable of providing what they needed. He had lived his life by the sword and expected to die by the sword. It was strange, what was happening. This yearning for something other than fighting. He knew of nothing else.

* * *

><p>It was Emelin that alerted her to his arrival<p>

"UP! UP!" she said, pulling on her skirts and pointing to her left. Sansa thought that perhaps Arya had returned, but it was the hound the girl had spotted. His fierce grey eyes devoured her. Sansa felt the smile wobble in her face, her insides twisting with nervousness. She wanted to throw her arms around her and kiss him. He was leaning against a market stall, his scarred face drawn tightly, making the people give him a wide berth.

She went to him feeling as if she was walking on clouds. "My lord, what a pleasure to see you again after so long."

The hound snorted at her greeting. "Glad to see my face, are you?" He rasped out.

"Yes," she said wanting to touch him. "Very much."

He broke his hungry gaze to stare down. Emelin was pulling on his breeches with a small hand, demanding attention, her little face scrunched up with frustration. Sansa picked her up and lifted her above her head for just a moment then brought her down to eyelevel to plant a kiss on her forehead. "There, now stop bothering the poor man."

Emelin pouted prettily but stayed quiet, wrapping her arms around her neck and resting her head against Sansa's shoulder. The hound stared at them, his face indecipherable, much like the night he went away. She wondered if seeing her with the babe put a damper on his desire for her. She hugged the child closer, hoping it was not the case, knowing she would never part with Emelin, her one true love, for anyone.

"The song you promised me in your letter, "he rasped out, "I will claim it tonight," he finished menacingly, causing an awful flutter in Sansa's tummy.

"There are guards," she told him quietly. "After you left the Queen stationed them. Three in total."

'I know, I told her were to put them. Make sure the little one is asleep."

"Yes. She has her own room now, next to mine. She hardly frets anymore." But she felt the fool. He would not care a bit about a child's sleeping quarters.

"Good," he said, his face twitching at her discomfort. "Keep blushing like that, little bird, and soon the whole city will know you will be singing for me tonight."

It was sinful, they way he talked to her, as if songs and birds were dirty words. It made her knees feel unsteady. Flowery words and silly songs were naught compared to the fire in the hound's eyes. She watched him walkway, delighting in the breadth of his shoulders, and his long legs. She frowned at the detection of a slight limp. Her poor hound, she thought, so riddled with past hurts.

She busied herself purchasing food for the evening meal, as well picking up new shoes for Maega and Jorgi. At the orphanage she read the children and played with Emelin. She looked over the accounts and made notes of the things they needed. Regardless of how much she tried to pass the time, night did not come for a long while.

Once it did it found her edgy and impatient. Wondering if she should be naked, or not. Her nightgown was fairly unattractive, thick to fight the winter chill, covering her from head to toe in the most unbecoming of ways. She must have looked like an oversize cow the nights he had visited. She dug into her wardrobe for a better dress, wondering if it would be silly to wear a silk gown to bed, or even if she would be able to dress in the fancy garment without a maid.

Sans stripped to her small clothes and a translucent shift, hoping to be able to tie the dress herself, and wondering if she had time to do something with her hair. Oh, but why had she wasted time, as king Robert aptly described it, counting coppers?

"Such an eager little bird."

This time she was not startled. Oddly, the nerves she had been feeling since the marketplace dissolved at the sight of him. She wanted him. Wanted him more that she had her handsome husband or the charming Dornish knight with the pretty words. His face did not detract her desire, grisly though it was. Even without the scars he would not have been a handsome man, the type to make young girls swoon. Sansa wanted him just the same, wanted the man with the fierce eyes and strong hands.

"You were gone longer that you said you would be," she accused softly.

"Aye, there was much to do." He didn't move from his place by the doorway.

She could feel the wetness growing between her legs, wondered what she had to do to entice him to her side. She wanted to kiss him again, wanted his hands on her, wanted him inside her. The thought of him thrusting into her spurned her on.

With steady hands she lifted her shift over her head. Next went her small clothes. He watched her with burning eyes, following her movements with evident hunger. Sansa could hardly breathe for want of his touch.

"My lord?" she asked, some of the nerves returning as she stood naked before him.

"Sandor," he said, "Say it."

"Sandor." Was that her voice, trembling and breathless?

His longs legs ate up the distance between them. She expected rough kisses and desperate hands. But she should have known. His hands went around her waist carefully, and his kisses were soft and tender. Her hound, always so gentle with her. She could feel him hard against her stomach. Sansa rubbed against him, feeling victorious at the sound of his grunt. He pushed her slowly down on the bed until she was seating on the edge. Sandor went onto his knees between the thighs that he had spread open.

The kisses continued as sweet as before, with his tongue slowly driving her insane. His hands wondered now, from her shoulders to her back to her waist. His mouth slipped down to nip on her throat, and then lower to suckle on her nipple. Her other breast in his huge hand. Her own hands were wrapped around his neck, holding him close, her body undulating against him, shamelessly so. Sansa could not bring herself to care. Her shaking hands started pulling on his clothes, wanting to see all of him, feel all of him.

He soothed her with inaudible words, let her desire simmer as he kissed lower still, her stomach, and tested her desire with his fingers. Another groan at the discovery of her wetness. At the feel of his fingers slipping easily through her folds she felt the beginnings of a blush staining her face.

He laughed roughly, guessing her embarrassment. He brought her hand down between her legs, "Feel how wet you are for me," he rasped. A thick finger slipped inside her as Sansa watched with wide eyes. She struggled to keep herself upright on the bed, leaving her own inflamed flesh to grip his shoulder. He caught her hand midway and stared at the wetness there, shimmering in the firelight.

In utter disbelief Sansa watched as he put them in his mouth, licking them and suckling them of her juices. She let herself fall backwards, unable to withstand the pleasure anymore, feeling desperate and frustrated and wanton.

Sandor didn't follow her, and she knew with a thrill of excitement, fear and shame what he meant to do. He dragged her further to the edge of the bed, her trembling legs framing his body. She could feel his breath on her maiden hair, her hips rose in response.

She shattered at the first touch of his tongue.

He was still licking her folds, suckling her, when she came to, out of breath and filled with wonder.

Sansa closed her eyes, feeling spent, languid and unbelievably happy. She could hear him disrobing, but felt to lethargic to open her eyes to gaze upon him. Then he was atop her, supporting his weight on his forearms, kissing her with the taste of her desire.

His skin was hot, feverish almost and the hair on his chest turned her nipples into hard little buds. "Open your eyes," he said against her mouth.

Her heavy lids managed to open to his fierce gaze. She smiled at him, bringing her hands to his face, pulling him down for a quick kiss.

Before her eyes slid closed again, Sandor flipped them, and now it was her atop her hound. He nudged her with his hips, his penis hard and insistent between them. "Put me in you," Sandor rasped through clenched teeth.

Sansa stared at him with wide eyes. He cursed filthily as he brought himself to a semi sitting position, making her mimic his actions, stopping when he felt their sexes touched. "Put my cock inside you," he said again, and Sansa understood.

She struggled to straddle him properly, insecure about this. She had never... her experience had always been flat on her back. This was different and daunting. She took him in her hand, hard and veiny and already leaking, big, just as the rest of him was.

She was extremely wet but it had been years since Sansa had been with a man, so he slid in slowly, igniting desire in her again. She stared down, stretched and filled by him, simply enjoying the feeling.

"Seven hells, woman, move!"

Sansa laughed, deeply and happily, feeling powerful and brimming with passion. He placed his big hands on her bottom, kneading gently, guiding her in her clumsy movements until she found a rhythm.

It was happening again.

The hound's hips snapped up, grounding against her, spilling his seed inside her, grunting his pleasure. Sansa fell against him, waves and waves of pleasure crashing into her.

Once her heart wound down and she caught her breath Sansa slid languidly off his body, feeling as giddy as a young girl. She was pleasantly spent, almost to the point of exhaustion but she refused to succumb to sleep when Sandor was in her bed, big and strong and warm. She traced the scars on his chest idly, feasting on his strength and the lingering pleasure of their lovemaking. She refused to break the spell they were under by either speaking or moving.

It was the wail of a child that interrupted their afterglow. Sansa rose apologetically. "She's still getting used to sleeping alone," she said as she donned a shift as the cries for "Lady," rose higher and higher.

"Perhaps it was your screams that woke the child," he said, his face filled smug male pride.

Sansa blushed to the roots of her hair, ignoring his amused laughter as she walked on wobbly knees to see to her child.

*.*.*

He woke up to the sound of giggles and tiny little hands beating on his chest. He opened his eyes blearily to discover Sansa's girl staring at him, grinning and making babbling noises at him. Sansa was next to him deep asleep, though the sun was shinning brightly. He cursed himself for oversleeping, knowing it would be harder to leave unnoticed in plain daylight. He should have just left when Sansa had gone to the child. Foolish sentimentality had gotten the best of him, not a usual occurrence; he had fallen asleep waiting for his little bird.

Sandor jumped, when the little chit grabbed a tiny fistful of his chest hair and yanked. He ground his teeth, glaring at the little animal for lack of knowing what to do. The girl only bounced and giggled, sending her spittle running down her mouth. She reminded him, not that Sansa would be happy to hear it, of a young pup he had when he was a boy. All puppy grins, drool, and exuberant energy.

"UP!"

A raspy laugh escaped him. "No."

"UP!"

"No."

The girl furrowed her brow in apparent anger. "Bad." She stuck her tongue out in displeasure.

The laughter came again, rumbling out of his chest; startling the puppy and waking up Sansa. He wondered why the girl showed no fear of his face, was she too young to know any better, or did her mother's disregard for the scars make her bold? The puppy crawled over to a drowsy Sansa and pointed at him with one skinny little finger. "Bad."

Sansa's eyes suddenly cleared. "She wouldn't fall back asleep, and I was so very tired." She said defiantly, as if he would fault her for taking care of her child.

He disentangled himself from the thick blankets and rose naked from the bed. Sansa gasped, covering the pup's eyes, while her own travelled up and down his body. She was wearing the shift from last night, a flimsy transparent thing that displayed her pink nipples and her dark auburn maiden hair. Sansa gave him a cocky smile when his sex began hardening.

He put his breeches on, with some difficulty, and only then did Sansa take her hand off the pup's eyes. "The guards are sure to see you," she told him as he finished dressing.

"If they do, I'll persuade them otherwise."

"Is that prudent? Would you not rather wait till nightfall?"

By the gods, he was tempted to do just that, stay in her bed, in her arms, for that was what she was offering, the whole bloody day. "No. I have many things to do. I'll be back tonight."

She left her babe on the bed with a kiss on the forehead to come to him. It still managed to catch him off guard, how willingly she went to him. Eager for his kisses and his touch. He kissed her yielding lips carefully, wishing he could take her again, and knowing he could not, because of the babe, and because the longer he stayed the greater chance of discovery.

"I have to go, little bird."

"Yes," but she was on her tip toes, trying to reach his mouth. She pulled him down, like she had before, for another brain addling kiss. And another and another and another.

Cursing himself for a fool, Sandor made his way down the orphanage, down a fucking window, negotiating the stonework carefully. He was too bloody old to be sneaking out of lady's room. A loose stone almost at the bottom slipped free causing him to flay backwards and land ungraciously on some bushes, thankfully not thorny ones. For the third time that morning, laughter spilled from his scarred lips.

* * *

><p><em>AN_: _From the books, I always gathered that the hound was extra gentle with his little bird. I hope you guys liked the lemon, i'm not that adept at writing them, although i do enjoy the challenge. Please review. _


	5. Chapter 5

Arya reached the orphanage by midday. She was travel weary and still, after weeks on the road, reeling from Gendry's harsh words. It hurt, she could not deny it. Affable Gendry turning away from her as if he could no longer stand the sight of her. Arya had expected him the next morning, apologetic and meek, but he had not come to her. He had left in the night, even before Lord Romin had fallen to his death.

"Arya! Oh, how I've missed you. There is much news." Sansa went to embrace her sister.

"I know it," Arya tried to smile, but failed. "The queen has told me of your news. How your news visits nightly."

Sansa blushed prettily, took Arya's callused hands in her soft ones. "I do hope you can be happy for me."

"I am." Arya looked at her older sister, saw the desperate need for approval, for her blessing. "I am," she repeated.

Sansa smiled sadly. "I wish my happiness would not cause you pain."

"It matters not. What matters is that you are happy," Arya let go of her sister. Arya walked over to a window, looked out at the children playing outside. "It is clear as day you are."

"Come sit with me," Sansa said, extending her hand toward her.

Arya indulged her, seating next to her older sister, smiling despite herself at the girlish sight her sister made. Sansa was eager to share her love affair with her, to gossip like two young girls. It would be a nice delusion, Arya thought, quite a normal occurrence in most families. Yes, she would indulge her. Even talking about the hound would be better than dwelling on Gendry.

"I have not been this happy since before we left Winterfell. I feel..." Sansa gestured with her arms, then giggled, giving up on trying to put words to feelings. "I didn't know," she whispered, blushing, "I didn't know how wonderful_ it_ could be."

"Spare me the details." There was only so much she was willing to listen to.

"Oh, shush, you are my sister. You must listen. Who else can I confide in?" She asked sternly. "It is wonderful, and it keeps getting better every time. He's a gentleman-"

She was interrupted by Arya snorting loudly.

"He is. It is a good trait, I know, but I feel he's holding back. As if he's afraid he'll break me. It's disconcerting to say the least. Arya, are you listening?"

"No."

Put out, Sansa crossed her arms. "Very well. I see you will be no help. Tell me about your trip then. Was there any trouble?"

"No."

"You don't feel like talking about me and you don't feel like talking about yourself. You've been gone for some time, there must be something you want to share with me."

"I've missed you," Arya offered with a grin.

Sansa smiled tenderly. "I've missed you too. I loathe that the queen sends you away so often and so far. Must you go?"

"I must."

"But why? She has army of knights at her disposal. Why must it always be you? You could stay here with me, help me with the children. You can teach the boys how to fight, and all sorts of other manly things," she jested lightly.

Arya laughed. It had taken some time for Sansa to grow accustomed to Arya's mannish manners, as much time as it had taken Arya to grow accustomed to Sansa's humbler change of heart. "I'd teach the girls as well."

"And they'd be the better for it," Sansa said, old hurts haunting her eyes. But she shook her head and smiled bravely. "I have something for you. Gendry brought it for you just yesterday." Sansa went to retrieve the item, leaving a bewildered Arya by herself.

Heart thumping fast, she wondered what it could be, a letter asking forgiveness, a trinket to win her favor? Whatever it was, she would not be easily swayed. She wouldn't even take it.

In came Sansa, carrying a large bundle of fabric. "Here."

With her heart thundering in her ears Arya slowly unwound the fabric. A sword. Not just any sword, but forged by Gendry. She traced her fingers along his mark. It was beautifully made, perfect for her hand, her height, her reach. A sword, he'd given her a sword, made especially for him with his own hands.

Arya shut her eyes tightly. She didn't want this. She could have laughed at everything he could possibly have given her, except this. But she didn't know what it meant. Was it an apology? A truce? A challenge? Sansa remained silent, watching her with eager eyes and impish grin on her lips.

"You are wrong."

"I said nothing."

"You did not have to. It is written plain on your face." Arya wrapped the sword back into its cloth.

"What am I wrong about? Do tell."

Arya glared. "He is a fool. He-"

"He loves you and if you do not know it, then it is you who is the fool."

Perhaps she did know that he had a certain _fondness_ for her but she preferred to pretend she didn't. It was much easier that way. Sooner or later he would get a Lady, a true Lady, a woman who would be as different from her as night from day.

"Do not meddle with his feelings, Arya. If you do not feel the same way, say so. If you're afraid- of course you're afraid," Sansa sighed. "I know you think me silly, you think I've learned nothing from our ordeals. I have. I've learned to expect the worst, to wait for the day when everything crumbles to dust. Happiness if fleeting, we both know that. If I could back, to before, I would have cherished every embrace from mother, every smile from father, every fight with you and every single moment with our brothers."

The covered sword felt much too heavy on her lap. She felt tears falling. She wiped them away furiously. That was the second time she had cried for him. "He is angry at me."

"Tell me," Sansa said sympathetically.

Arya looked at her older sister, torn between confiding and pretending. Seven hells, but she hurt. Of all the things to cry about. A man. Sansa took her in her arms, rubbed her back, cooed in he ear. And if felt so much like what her mother would have done for her, that it was almost as painful as thinking about Gendry. Arya told her, between sobs and bouts of dignified anger, told her how much she hurt.

* * *

><p>Sansa placed her head on Sandor's chest, comforted by the steady beat of his heart. She caressed the hairs on his chest, luxuriated in the feel and scent of him. His arm rested on her naked hip, holding her close. She kissed his shoulder blade, smiling softly in the darkness. It would be light soon, and he would have to leave.<p>

She hadn't known it could be like this, not only the sex, but everything. Didn't know the sweetness she would feel at the sight of his ragged face or the sound of his raspy voice. The comfort of being wrapped in his arms, the joy of falling asleep next to him every night and waking up to the feel of his solid body. Sansa hadn't known there could be such easy intimacy.

He would be leaving the next morning back to his lands, making the moment even more precious. She would miss him; she already did if that was possible. He had promised he would return faster this time, but she knew it would seem eternal.

"Arya has found something else to fault you with."

He grunted sleepily.

"She is quite upset over it. Emelin was all smiles when she saw Arya, that is until my dear sister failed to lift her high enough to touch the ceiling. Arya cursed you to hell and back."

Sandor opened one eye balefully, gave a short chuckle. "The pup has certainly earned my approval." He frowned. "I would prefer another designation from her. I grow weary of her shouting 'bad' every time she lays eyes on me."

"She likes you."

"Yes, I've noticed. That child is not very discerning. Give her a lift and she drools with happiness."

Said child let out a wail from the next room. "Lady!"

That was their signal that it was time to start the day. Sansa grabbed her robe and went to her daughter as Sandor clothed himself. Sansa and the pup came into the room hand in hand, making quite a sight.

"Bad!" The young child toddled to him, gripping his trousers, a habit she had developed at the sight of him. "UP! UP! UP!" The girl squealed as her fingers grazed the roof. Her little legs kicking wildly.

"I wish you would stay. At least so you could break your fast with us."

"Tongues will wag if I stay."

The pup looked down at him from her perch in his arms, laughing, dimples in display, and her eyes full of mischief. That was the exact moment it happened, the moment he felt his world shifting. The moment his heart broke into tiny little pieces. Never in his life had someone gazed upon his face with such unconditional acceptance and complete trust. It staggered him, the sheer weight of it. A knot formed on his throat, a very large knot.

Sansa had said something. "What?"

"I said that tongues have wagging about me for years now. I have become quite used to it."

The hound put the pup down gently, awed at her little face scrounging up in displeasure at being brought down, at leaving his arms. "Bad!"

There was an odd ache in his heart, a dull pain. He swallowed hard. It was painful, this... this thing that he was feeling. Terrifying as well, he realized, as he gazed at Sansa distracting the pup with rag doll. Sansa looked up at him, smiled and some of the ache was soothed. She walked towards him wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Stay." She kissed him. "It is your last day. Please," she pouted at him. The chit actually pouted at him, the hound, one of the most feared men in the realm, pouted at the face she used to fear. It was a favor he had never expected.

"I will stay only to break our fast," he said sternly, trying to save face, knowing he'd been defeated with a mere pout.

Sansa beamed at him, her eyes glinting happily. "It is too early for the kitchens to have anything ready. Mayhaps we can lay in bed a while longer?"

"Trickery."

She giggled as she went to pick up her pup, gave him a saucy look as she went back to the bed. He toed off his boots and joined her. Sansa instantly curled into his side. The pup crawled atop his chest. It was not an unusual occurrence; the nights they had spent together had either ended or started in such a way. She was a trusting little thing, the puppy, and had only emboldened with time.

Aside from lifting the girl at her demand, and letting her use him as a walkway, Sandor hardly ever dared lay a finger on the girl. Frankly, the mere thought scared him. He closed his eyes, remembering his young sister, his brute of father carrying her on his shoulders, his sister's loud squeals. He opened his eyes to see the pup staring at him with wide eyes and a toothy smile. Slowly he brought his hand down on her head, softly ruffling her hair. It was soft, the softest material he had ever touched. That bloody knot again.

"Her parents are dead?"

"No. She was left her by her mother. Too many girls," Sansa explained bitterly. "I'm glad of it, though it makes me a horrible person. She belongs with me now."

"You want no more children?" He asked, knowing that she was taking moon tea to prevent conceiving his child. It was a sensible decision for an unmarried Lady, though it burned him.

Sansa looked at him. "I supposed it would depend on who offered to father them." Her gazed wavered away from him, suddenly shy. "Do you have children?"

"None that I know of. The women that I've been with, they-"

"Say no more, please," she said, her face showing her distaste for the women he spoke about. "I was with child once. Just once. I lost the babe. It is possible that I am barren, that cannot carry a child to birth," she stated, her blue eyes clear and open.

"It makes no matter to me, Sansa."

"You need an heir. I might not be able to provide you with one. It is a gamble most men would not take." Realizing what she had said, she turned her gaze away again, blushing. "That is, I did not mean to-"

"Was that a proposal of matrimony, Little Bird?" He rasped out. He had planned to make his completely; he just had not found a way to tell her. Truth be told, he had been scared she would refuse him.

"I suppose it was," her gaze came back to his, her face set.

"You would take me as you husband?" His birth was too low, his lands meager, she could have anyone she wanted to.

"I would only take you as my husband. No one else. I'm free to marry whom I choose, I have not done so. I had not wished to marry. Until you." She took his face in her hands. "I have loved you for years and I have fallen in love with you again these past few weeks. I would have no other."

He had no pretty words to tell her. By the gods, he wished he did, he wished he had the words to tell her how much her words meant. He kissed her instead, trying to show her what he could not say in words. It was a soft kiss, languid, and too soon interrupted by the pup's clamoring for attention.

"We shall marry when the Keep is finished. I will make haste, that I promise you."

"If I cannot have children-"

"It makes no matter, I told you. You are enough, more than I deserve, more than-"

She lunged herself at him, burrowing under his chin, the pup tucked beneath them. Sandor brought his arms around both of them. Sansa was crying, and he didn't know what to do, the pup looked up at him, frowning, as if to say "do something." The next moment her little face scrounged up, and she let out a wail of her own. The fearsome hound remained still, puzzled immensely by the grand feeling of having two weeping females use him as a rag to wipe their tears. Disconcerting, to say the least.

After the tears had been dried, and breakfast had been brought to her private chambers, they sat together, as they would, hopefully, for many years to come. Sansa was still in a happy daze. Tears threatened to spill, but she refused to cry again; although watching Sandor's panicked expression had been entertaining. Now she understood the expression; bursting with happiness.

She mashed up peas for Emelin. The girl sat in her lap, eagerly lapping up her food, her earlier tantrum completely forgotten, except for a few sighs here and there. As promised, Sandor had stayed until breakfast time, but she knew he was eager to leave. It meant a lot to her that he had indulged her. Most men would not have done so, at least in her experience.

"I will send for you when the Keep is habitable."

"Send for me?" It dawned on her then. She'd have to leave the orphanage, the children, to live on Clegane lands. She would have to leave her home.

"Sansa?" He asked, his face showing uncertainty.

"Can we not live here?"

He looked like he had been slapped. "Is that your wish?"

"Yes."

"Then it shall be so."

She gained no satisfaction from his fast agreement to stay at King's Landing. The easy mood they had been sharing transformed into something tighter, colder. She was afraid she had unintentionally hurt him. But she couldn't leave her home, the life she had built. She could not, would not.


	6. Chapter 6

Warning: Un'betad; read at your own risk.

Mini-Lemon ahead.

* * *

><p>Despite everything it was still the godswood that she visited when seeking solace. It was her father and mother she would think of, of Bran and Rob. It was a tangible link to her past, to what she had lost. Sansa settled on the roots, the red leaves shading her from the sun, the gnarled face on the trunk wise and sympathetic.<p>

Sandor had left the previous day. Aside from the aching whole in Sansa's heart, guilt had been eating at her since then. They had made no mention of her refusal to join him in his lands, but it hung heavy in the air nonetheless. Sandor hadn't been angry at her, though she wished he had been. That would be easier to bear than his resigned bearing.

She leaned against the trunk, the knobby wood digging into her back, giving her comfort. Sansa wished she could please him, the way he always pleased her, but in this matter she could not. She would not bear being ripped away from her home, from her sister or the children in the orphanage. It was not a simple request he was asking of her. Not that he asked, she thought angrily.

She sighed, she wanted to be angry to avoid the shame of her response and the guilt at his easy acquiesce. If only she had explained herself better. If only her mind hadn't been reeling with dread at the prospect of leaving King's Landing. It would have beeen easier if he had tried to wheedle and cajole or demand and shout. But no, he had accepted her decision with nary a word in protest. It made her heart ache.

"Sansa, for shame, he's been gone only a day," her sister said with disgust, approaching the tree with a confident stride.

"I wish it was only that. I fear I must have snubbed him horribly," Sansa straightened her back. "Come; let me fix your hair."

Arya balked her approach. "I like my hair the way it is."

""I know, but indulge me just this once."

"Don't make it all girly."

"I promise."

Arya sat in front of her, huffing her displeasure. Sansa used her fingers to comb the wild mass of dark brown hair. She took a section to plait, the repetitive motion lulling her scattered thoughts.

"He made mention of readying his lands for my arrival. I told him I would not leave the capital."

"I imagine he roared in protest."

"Quite the opposite. He just accepted my decision, though I could tell by the sad look in his eyes that I had hurt him. I don't know what to do."

"The hound has a sad look? I find it hard to believe, Sansa. Perhaps he was suffering the ill-effects of too much wine."

Sansa continue plaiting her sister's hair, finishing by taking pins from her own hair to pin the braid on Arya's hair. She turned her around to see her work. She smiled tenderly at her sister. "You have father's look about you, but I can see mother as well. You're very pretty."

Uncomfortable, Arya shifted next to her, her back against the tree as well. Then a thoughtful look crossed her profile. "Why can't you go?" She turned her face, her grey eyes intense.

"I can't leave the children. I can't leave my home." Her tone the same as when she had tried to explain to her younger sister why girls had to wear dresses. They just had to.

"This isn't your home, Sansa. We've had no place to call home for many years."

"The orphanage is my home."

"You're hideout perhaps."

Arya's stare was becoming burdensome. Sansa chose to turn away from her sister's gaze. Her eyes reminding Sansa of her Father. "I don't know what you're trying to get at. I will not leave for an unknown place in which the only person I know is my husband."

"You're afraid!" Understanding dawn on Arya. She snorted. "You should take your own advice, Sister. That is, if he truly is what you want. Learn to let go of the past," she told her, throwing back some of the counsel Sansa had given her on Gendry.

"It's different. Gendry is asking you to abandon all you know."

"The hound isn't asking you that either. And Gendry might not be asking anything of me now, but soon he'll want me in a dress and birthing his babes."

"Why wouldn't he? It's perfectly normal for a woman to wear a dress and become a mother."

"As is living with your husband at his estate!"

Sansa clenched her jaw tightly, spoke through gritted teeth. "It's not fear that keeps me here. I have allies here, friends, you. People that would come to my aid, should I need it."

"Should you need aid for what? To escape the Hound?"

"No!" She cried, leaving her seat at the foot of the tree. She wrung her hands nervously. "Of course not! I just can't bare it, Arya. Not again."

Sometimes Arya forgot how deeply Sansa had been damaged. It was easy fall victim to her sister's smiles and easy charm. "What if I were to go with you?" Arya said softly.

Sansa's hands stilled. The dread that had enveloped eased a bit, allowing her to breath painlessly since the day before.

"We could go. Scout the area, if you will. Come back if you don't like it."

"What if I choose to stay?"

"Then I will make the Clegane lands my home. I've no home either. I could live there as easily as here."

"Truly?"

"Truly."

Sansa smiled sadly. "I lied. I am scared."

"I know." Arya sat back down, her slight body cradled amongst the thick roots. "Me too."

* * *

><p>Arya waited for Gendry in his room. Her heart was hammering wildly and more than once she thought of fleeing. She was no coward, so she waited with baited breath, equally fearful and excited to confront him. She stupidly felt the need to justify herself.<p>

If he was surprised to see her he didn't express it. "What do you want?" He sat on his bed, bending over to remove his boots.

Arya licked her dry lips. "First to thank you for my sword. It's beautiful. Perfect. I had no idea you still forged."

"What else?" He said with a mulish look on his face.

He was still angry at her. Her heart felt like it had a gaping hole. It hurt too much to have her look at her as if she mattered nothing. "Don't be angry anymore."

"I'm not angry." He ran a hand through his dark hair. "I _was_, that lasted a few hours but then I realized that there was no point. You will never forgive me for joining the brotherhood. Because of that I will always be on the periphery of your life, never a part of it."

"You speak of it as if it were nothing. You were all I had and you left me."

"If I hadn't I would still be a blacksmith."

"I liked you better then."

He smiled humorlessly. "I know. But ladies don't fall in love with blacksmiths. I wanted to better myself. I knew that once the war was fought you'd go back to your castle and I would go back to a smithy. I didn't have a chance, but still hoped. I've been hoping all this time. So just go, leave me be. I've wasted enough of my time chasing after you."

It was the first time he had told her directly that he wanted her. Strangely, his cold words comforted her, soothed her injured heart. Arya bit her lip, knowing she should do as she was told and leave. Another part of her, a wilder more hopeful part, a part she had thought she had lost forever, told her to stay.

"You're stupid. I'd take the blacksmith a hundred times over the knight. I want the bastard boy that protected me and that tried to comfort me as best he could. I never asked you to become Ser Gendry of the Hollowed Hill. That was you. I liked you just fine for what you were."

"I wanted more from you that mere like."

"Truly? It's hard to tell with the trail of swooning ladies in your wake." Her tone sounded churlish even to her own ears.

His expression turned from mulish to puzzled. He looked pained. Mayhaps she had said too much, Arya thought, feeling vulnerable and scared for the very first time in a long time. Mayhaps she had said just enough, she corrected, as he stared at her intently, his blue gaze, making her cheeks burn and tint pink.

"Why do you care?"

"Why? Why don't I skewer you with my sword when you call me my lady? Why do I let you follow me around King's Landing? Why do I care if you think I'm whoring myself for the queen?" She said softly, mimicking his words from before.

At the last question he stood up abruptly, went to grab her shoulders. "I'm sorry. It was said in anger. I shouldn't have been so coarse."

"I never shared Lord Romin's bed."

She saw relief flood his eyes. "I did kill him. Many others as well."

He looked down, sighed. "I know," he said, dropping his hands from her shoulders.

"Do you still want me?"

"Only if you want me back."

Arya swallowed hard, her fear a palpable pain in her chest. "I'm never going to wear dresses."

"I'll hold you to that. I've grown quite fond of the look of you from behind in those britches."

It mad her laugh but she continued. "I can't give you children."

"You're too much for me to handle as it is," he laughed self-deprecatingly. "I can't imagine trying to herd any child born from you, though I would give it a fair shot should you wish it," He sighed loudly, took hold of her hands. "The war is over, we fought and we survived. It's time to build our lives. I want to build mine alongside yours."

"And If decide to build mine far away from King's Landing?"

"If you'll have me, I'll follow you north to the wall if need be."

"What do you get in return? Only me? It seems like an unfair bargain."

He leaned his forehead against hers. "I get the woman that I love. I get a family, a pack, a mate for life. Don't sell yourself short. It's what I've always wished for."

"So, what is going to be, Arry?"

In answer she wrapped her arms around him because she was too afraid to say it.

* * *

><p>Women, the hound's father had once told him in an aggravated voice, were strange creatures. Sandor had observed this to be true many a time. However, never had he experienced it first hand. No woman had ever befuddled him as Sansa was doing now. He felt a deep kinship with his late father, wondering what advice the man would part onto him.<p>

Sansa's smiled wobbled on her face as she waited for him to welcome her to his home. His little bird was nervous, he could tell, and it ached his heart to see her so unsure after having been witness to the strong woman she had become. Truth be told he wanted to scream at her, but the restraint the brothers beat into him prevailed. Instead, Sandor ordered her men, the escorts the queen had sent to deliver her to him, seen to.

Arya and her man were hoisted onto the new Maester of the keep. As for Sansa, she walked silently next to him carrying her sleeping babe, looking as if she were afraid the walls might swallow her. It was hard to hold his anger when she looked so damn fragile.

"You should have sent word, Sansa," he tried to gentle his tone, but knew he failed when Sansa flinched.

"Aren't you pleased?"

That was a difficult question to answer. He had thought himself dreaming when it was Sansa that walked through the doors. His sentries had spotted the queen's banners days before, had gone so far as to send one his men to assure them a welcome. Sansa never made herself known to them. Yes, he had been pleased, though was much too tame a word for what he felt when he saw her. Fear and anger followed closely, his belly twisting at the thought of his little bird making the journey without him, of the danger she could have faced.

"I'm am pleased, aye, but also baffled and holding tight to my tempter. You made it plain you wished to stay in the capital. Yet you come here, almost at my heels, with no word to me about it."

He opened the door to a sleeping chamber, watched silently as she placed Emelin on the middle of the bed; let her kiss the sleeping child before grabbing her wrist and taking her to his private quarters.

He kissed her hard and angry, pulling her body close, his hands groping her lush curves. Sansa responded keenly, opening to him with a loud groan. Her timidity gone for the moment, replaced by need as he pulled her skirts up, stroking her through her small clothes. "You should have sent word," he said again, enraptured by her mouth and her scent, but still simmering with anger. "The king's road is not safe and my lands certainly aren't. Why do you think they remained without a lord for so long? It's a dangerous journey, one you should not have made without me."

By the gods, but she was wet and willing. He hiked her up by her bottom and she wasted no time in wrapping her long legs about his waist. He groaned at her eagerness, wanting nothing more than to lose himself within her. "I told you I would retrieve you," he rasped as he laid her on his bed. "I told you the keep wasn't fit to have you yet."

Her skirt was lifted to her waist, and with one strong movement her smallclothes were removed. The hound looked at her as if he meant to devour her, placing his fingers on her wet folds, watching her soft flesh yield to his invading touch. He reached for the ties to his britches, undid them with a shaking hand.

He plunged into her without the care he usually took with her, buried himself to the hilt, grunting at the feel of her body taking him in, at Sansa's loud groan. She wrapped her legs around him again, urging him on. One large hand went under her arse, angling her for a deeper thrust. Sansa seeked his lips, moaning louder, swiveling her hips, desperate. She peaked with a hoarse cry, tightening and throbbing around him, prompting his own release.

"If that is your mad, I'll make note to enrage you further," Sansa said beneath him, still out of breath.

Sandor rolled over with a groan, knowing he was much too heavy for his little bird. He turned to look at her, glad to see the spark back in her eyes. She had a smile on her face, a real one, and looked like a woman well tended. Whatever anger still remained, it evaporated with the prideful feeling of having a beautiful woman in his bed still glowing from her climax.

"You should have sent word," he said for the third time, though lacking the heat from before.

She used his shoulder for a pillow, kissing his jaw and nuzzling against him. "I had to do it without you. You see, I've been plucked away from my home to marry too many times without a choice. I could not bear again."

"I would not have forced the issue."

"I know that. I know you're different. But I wanted to please you, wanted to make you happy but I was so afraid. I knew it was important that I come here, to your birthright." She kissed his lips, quieting him when he would have spoken. "I should have left the capital many years ago. What I told you were only excuses. I have never been happy there. The orphanage was my sanctuary, the only place I felt safe, and the children were a comfort. I needed them as much as they needed me, but as much as my heart breaks letting them go, it's time for me to start a new life. I want to be happy, truly happy, and I know I won't be in the shadows of that city."

"So you see," she said getting up, trying to put her clothes to rights. "It had to be my choice and mine alone. I did not send word because until this very day I was still unsure I would ever walk inside these walls."

"And now?"

She smiled. "You looked so angry when you first saw me; I almost lifted my skirts and fled into the woods. You'll have to thank Arya for keeping me grounded."

"I would never hurt you."

"I know, but fear is a powerful thing. Sometimes, it springs on you at the oddest times. I thought myself free of my ghosts, but that is not the case at all. I've not had easy dealings with men, the worst of which was Joffry but Little Finger was not far behind. My life has taught me to be fearful and cautious."

She went to him, kissed his scarred face. His lips, his cheeks, his forehead. "I need time yet to grow accustomed to this place. To feel safe. I'm on edge, if you must know, it's not easy being here. But I do believe I've gotten a wonderful start," she finished with an impish grin.

He returned her smile only to please her. Sandor cradled her soft cheek in his large hand, brining her closer for a kiss. "I don't mean to keep you caged, Little Bird."

"I wouldn't have come otherwise." She stood again. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to slight you by refusing to come."

"It makes no matter."

"It does. I'm sorry for it. I'm sorry for not sending word too, though I wouldn't change that if I could."

He nodded. He knew his birthright was measly compared to what she was used to, to what she could have with someone of her status. He hadn't been surprised at her refusal, though it truth it did pain him horribly. Sandor hadn't though of how his offer sounded, of how she had been whisked away before, at the mercy of her so-called protectors.

Sansa trusted him enough to place herself it what had been before a dangerous situation. He was humbled by this act as much as he had been when she had proclaimed her love for him. Trust was a rare commodity, even more so for women. He understood her reasons, though her traveling without him didn't sit well at all.

"I have to mind Emelin, I don't want her waking up in a strange place by herself."

Sandor stood from his resting place on the bed, made himself presentable as well. "I'll send food and a ready a bath."

At nightfall he went to her again, anxious to her little pup awake. He had spent hours listening to queen's men, organizing them for patrol, finding room for the men and their horses. The keep was still a right mess, with nearly every building in a state of disrepair. Sandor had wanted Sansa to see it completed, to see it as it had been when his parents had lived. But she was here now, he thought, and that was a blessing in itself.

He found Sansa in the pup's room, eating her supper with the she-wolf and her man. The pup, who had been happily bouncing on Arya's lap, abandoned her at the sight of him. Her little legs carried her unsteady toward him, and he picked her up instinctively, the way he had seen his mother and father scoop up his younger sister. "Bad!" the pup said, kissing his cheek loudly.

Arya cursed with a sour look on her face, her man chortled loudly, while his little bird covered her mouth delicately with a napkin to hide her mirth. Emelin bounced on his arms, smiling widely, giggling at him, mischief in her eyes. In that moment, Sandor knew they were home, the three of them. A new family, a new pack, a new life.

The End

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><p>Stay tuned; a short epilogue to follow. Hope you guys have enjoyed this little fic. Thank you everyone who has reviewed!<p> 


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